The Lincoln Myth (32 page)

“This edition was so successful,” he said, “that from that point forward this book has never been out of print.”

“I read the library’s record on it,” she said.

He smiled. “I would have expected no less.”

“The registers indicate that Abraham Lincoln checked this book out on November 18, 1861, and returned it on July 29, 1862. He also borrowed three other books the library had at the time on Mormonism.”

“He was the first and, to our knowledge, the only president ever to read the Book of Mormon. We Saints hold Lincoln in high esteem.”

He’d yet to delve any deeper than the title page.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to her. “I need to examine this in private.”

FORTY-TWO

O
RANGE
C
OUNTY
, V
IRGINIA

L
UKE SCRAMBLED OUT OF THE OPENING AND QUICKLY UNTIED
the rope from the column. Blue strobing continued in the distance, the sirens growing louder. He slid the concrete hatch back into place and stuffed mortar chips into the joint. Then he swiped away all remnants from the concrete floor. If no one came too close, the dark should provide enough cover to prove that all was okay. He grabbed the rope and tools and retreated into the woods, twenty yards away.

The police arrived at the mansion and within two minutes three flashlights appeared, heading his way. He hid among the thickets, his dark clothes providing plenty of cover in the moonless night. He heard voices as the flashlights fanned out and approached the temple.

But no one stepped onto it.

The officers seemed satisfied that all was calm. The flashlights stayed fifty feet away. What had spooked them? Why had they come? Some sort of video surveillance with night-vision capability?

He doubted that. Listening to Katie at dinner he knew the estate was strapped for money, barely enough coming in to make ends meet. And why have such elaborate security? There was little of real value here. Certainly not enough to justify hundreds of thousands of dollars in surveillance.

The flashlights loitered a bit longer. He could hear men talking but couldn’t make out what was being said. He watched, lying on his belly, through gnarly branches. Luckily the air was cool enough for it not to be a snake night, though he wouldn’t be surprised if a raccoon or two appeared.

The flashlights departed.

He saw all three retreat from the knoll to the house, heading around to its front. He stood and listened as the cars drove off, three sets of headlights fading away.

Time to finish.

He hustled back to the temple and retied the rope. He freed the hatch and tossed the slack back down. This was risky, but that was what he was paid to do. He’d learned during Ranger training to think, assess, then act under pressure, all with a clear goal in sight. Whatever it took, no matter the odds. Get the job done.

He grabbed the crowbar and with one gloved hand gripped the rope, adding a twist around his wrist for extra security, keeping it taut. He lowered himself, allowing his body to drop the ten feet needed to find the two letters.

IV.

He came to the approximate spot he remembered, then slid the crowbar into the top of his boot. He fetched the flashlight from his pocket and located the marked brick. Then he regripped the crowbar and popped the façade with the crook in the handle.

The clay held.

Again, but harder.

The brick cracked.

What the hell?

He slammed the iron bar into the surface, which shattered, revealing a dark hole. He switched the crowbar out for the light and shone the beam inside. Something glittered back.

Like glass.

He regripped the bar and carefully broke away the rest of the brick labeled IV. His right hand was beginning to ache from supporting his weight, though his feet, locked together around the rope,
bore the brunt. He stuffed the crowbar back into his boot and swiped away the remaining fragments. Before he stuffed his hand inside he used the light one more time to see what awaited him.

A small object.

Maybe eight inches wide and a couple of inches tall.

Definitely glass.

He clenched the small flashlight between his teeth and removed the prize. He angled his chin down and the light reflected off the glass. He could see something sealed inside. A quick check with the beam showed the hole in the wall was now empty.

Mission accomplished.

He walked through the woods at a leisurely pace, allowing his right arm and hand to relax after their strain. That shouldn’t have taxed his muscles so much. He was going to have to increase his workouts.

The rope was coiled over his shoulder. One hand held the crowbar, the other the glass receptacle. Definitely something sealed inside but he was not tasked with determining what. Stephanie had told him to retrieve and return whatever was there to her. Fine by him. He wasn’t upper management, and he liked it that way.

He’d replaced everything at the temple. Surely, either tomorrow or soon after, someone would notice the broken mortar joints. They’d raise the concrete hatch and discover the hole in the wall. What it all meant would simply be a mystery. No answers, no evidence. Nothing to point to any culprit. All in all a good night. He’d not only struck pay dirt in the ice pit, he had Katie’s phone number. He just might take her up on her offer and connect. He was due some downtime in another week.

He found his car and tossed the rope and crowbar into the trunk. He slipped back inside the Mustang, no cabin light betraying his presence. He laid the glass on the passenger seat and inserted the key in the ignition.

Something moved in the backseat.

He came alert.

A head appeared.

Then a face in the rearview mirror. Katie’s.

She was holding a gun—the one he kept in the glove compartment—aimed at him.

“You know how to use that?” he asked, not turning his head around.

“I can squeeze a trigger. The back of your seat is a big target.”

“You turned me in?”

“I knew you weren’t any army man. You’re a thief. I followed you back here and waited for you to make a move. Then I called the sheriff.”

“Now, darlin’, that hurts to the core. And I thought you and I were gettin’ along real good.” Then it hit him. “That phone number you gave me ain’t real. Right?”

“I only went to eat with you because I wanted to see what you were up to. I’m not a tour guide. I was just filling in today. I work on the restoration staff. I have a master’s degree in American history, working on my doctorate. Madison is my specialty. That house is important. Thieves like you ruin it for all of us. And what do you think? That phone number is for the local sheriff.”

Her being here was a big problem. What had Stephanie said?
Don’t get caught
. “I’m not a thief.”

“Then what’s on the front seat?”

He lifted the hunk of glass and handed it back to her.

“Where’d you find this? I’ve never seen it before.”

“That’s because Madison hid it in his ice pit.”

“How did you know that?”

He did not answer her.

“We’re going to the sheriff,” she said.

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that. You might be some bigwig academic, but I’m an agent for the U.S. government and we need what you’re holding.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that.”

He heard sirens. Again.

“Come on, Katie. What did you do now?”

“I called the sheriff back when I saw you coming.”

He turned around and faced her. “You’re rapidly becoming a pain in my ass. Look, I’m telling you the truth. I have to take that back to my boss. You can come with me, if you want, to make sure it’s cool.”

The wail grew closer.

“Did you tell them where we are?” he asked.

“Of course. How else are they going to find you?”

This just kept getting better and better.

“Make a decision, Katie. Shoot me, get out, or come with me. Which is it?” He saw the indecision in her eyes. “I really am an agent and this is damn important. Tell you what. If it makes you feel better, keep the gun and that hunk of glass back there with you.”

She said nothing.

The sirens kept coming.

“Go,” she finally said. “Get us out of here.”

He fired up the Mustang’s engine.

Tires spun, then grabbed a firm patch, and they sped away.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Now that, darlin’, is going to blow your mind.”

FORTY-THREE

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

R
OWAN WAITED UNTIL
S
TEPHANIE
N
ELLE HAD LEFT THE READING
room and the doors were closed before he focused on the book. He felt awe that Lincoln himself had held what lay on the table and pondered the meaning of lessons from long ago.

It shall be brought out of darkness unto light, according to the word of God. Yea, it shall be brought out of the earth, it shall shine forth out of the darkness and come unto the knowledge of the people, and it shall be done by the power of God. For the eternal purposes of the Lord shall roll on until all of his promises shall be fulfilled.

A prophecy, voiced just before the sacred golden record was hidden in the earth, where it was found centuries later by Joseph Smith and converted to the book before him.

Rowan had dedicated his life to his religion. His parents and theirs before them had all been Saints. Rowans had served the prophets, enduring both good and bad. Many had died to preserve what those before them had created. Why should this generation be any different? Charles R. Snow had done nothing but retreat and conform. His leadership had been irrelevant and uninspiring. The church remained fractured, with offshoots in Missouri and Pennsylvania,
and smaller ones scattered around the world. Each believed in Joseph Smith as prophet and founder. They accepted the Book of Mormon. But they disagreed on many fundamental issues.

And they were not wrong.

So many tenets Joseph Smith and Brigham Young instituted had been either abandoned or repudiated by later leadership in Salt Lake.

Most prominent was the belief in plural marriage, which many fundamentalists still held as central to their religion.

As he believed.

The prophet Smith decreed the practice essential, and no later decision made for political and public relations reasons could reverse that. For Rowan, personally, monogamy was fine. But a Saint should have the choice, as the Prophet Joseph decreed.

The time had come to reassemble as many of the faithful who wanted under one banner. But that could not be done while the U.S. government still wielded power. Each state should be free to chart its own course, especially in matters of faith and religion. Congress had no business in the hearts and minds of individuals.

If the people only knew.

He’d served thirty-three years in the Senate. Sadly, nothing ever seemed to get done unless it benefited a select few, the government as a whole, or both. Nothing ever passed simply because it was good for the country, or the states, or the people. Those were the farthest things from most legislators’ minds. Every congressman quickly learned that his or her only goal was to gather enough resources for the next election. Beyond that? Not a worry, until the
next
election was over. How many times had he watched as one lobbyist after another metamorphosed a good bill into a bad one. He’d never accepted one penny from a lobbyist. He rarely talked with them, and when he did, it was always in a group so there’d be no misunderstanding as to what was said. His reelections were paid for by individual donations from constituents inside Utah, all of which were reported in minute detail. If the voters were dissatisfied with that arrangement, they were free to elect someone else.
But for the past thirty-three years, the people of his state had chosen him.

He stared down at the book.

Brigham Young had written in the note sealed within the cornerstone that Lincoln
told my emissary that he had read the Book of Mormon
. As a young legislator in Illinois, Lincoln had known Saints. He actually helped obtain approval for the Nauvoo city charter, which granted them unprecedented autonomy. For thirty-two years, starting with Franklin Pierce and ending with Chester Arthur, presidents of the United States showed nothing but harshness toward the church. Lincoln’s five years were the sole oasis. In death his stature with Saints only grew. He emerged constantly at conference talks, in lesson manuals, in anecdotes. Rowan never realized the full extent of the connection until he began this quest.